


Words To Her, Words To Me

by heckasketchy



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckasketchy/pseuds/heckasketchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt Fill for kathytakespictures on Tumblr. Sorry it's so late, I honestly didn't know how to end it. Anyway. Teen!Rizzles. Maura is forced by her English teacher to write to her pen pal every week. Little does she know, she gets a lot more out of it than a good grade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words To Her, Words To Me

We had met during an assignment built by my AP English professor in junior year at Foxcroft School for Girls. Though 'met' is more of a relative term, I suppose. Professor Dale initially created the assignment to test her class' writing abilities, but for me, it evolved into so much more.

"Now, ladies, your writing partners will be students from another all-girl academy in, let's see," she brought her half-inch binder closer to her glasses-clad face to read it better before continuing. "Boston, Massachusetts." She snapped the binder shut, set in on her cluttered desk and walked around to the front of her desk to address the class directly. "Think of it as a type of Pen Pals Project, if you will." Mutterings erupted around the class as the students processed it all. I knew what they were all thinking: Pen Pals seemed so… childish, especially in our junior year of high school. We were all too mature for Pen Pals.

One of my better friends, Susie Chang, looked at me and snickered, gesturing slightly at the Professor as she did so. I smiled back, not entirely enjoying the notion of mocking the teacher, though also not liking the thought of writing to a complete stranger. "Now, now, class, I know it's not exactly what you would have in mind, but it really will help your skills. You'll be able to expand your English skills as well as make a new friend," she explained, waving her hand vaguely. More laughter and mumbles broke out as Professor Dale went on. "Yes, I know you girls don't need any more friends, but bear with me. And truly," she grabbed a pencil with a suction cup on the end and walked down the aisle between the desks towards Susie's and my own desk. She licked the end and firmly stuck it to Susie's desk before saying, with extreme sass, might I add, "There's really nothing you can do about it." She smiled as the class exploded with chuckles and soft 'oohs'.

"Yes, Professor Dale," Susie mumbled, smiling in jest at herself even though she was blushing profusely. I smiled widely and shoved her shoulder slightly before returning my attention to the Professor.

"I know it's cliché," Professor Dale sighed as she made her way back to her desk. She grabbed a coffee mug, swirled its contents and leaned her backside against the edge of her desk. "But you'll all pick a number from this cup. The numbers coincide with names on a list. Whoever's number you choose is the one you'll be writing for the rest of the school year." Again, the class groaned in protest, but Professor Dale paid no mind. She walked over to the desk in the top right corner and held out the cup. "Melanie, you're first, congratulations."

-0-

Susie and I were sitting at our lunch table, enjoying our school-made lunches as the girls around me whined about their assignments. It was apparently Susie's turn, and she immediately started off telling everybody about the Pen Pals Project she and I had been given. "And she takes out a cup. We drew numbers from a cup, guys." Exclamations of all kind came from the girls at our table. Many were pity-like and a few were slightly teasing, but I didn't really pay them any mind. I was too caught up in the thoughts that swirled around in my brain. Thoughts on the girl I was writing to, thoughts about what we would write about, thoughts on if we would even get along well. It plagued me. How was I supposed to write someone for the rest of the year if I didn't get along with them? What if I'm the type of girl she would dislike in any other situation? Or what if we get along so well and become friends but then never meet?

"…Maura got the worst match, I think." Everyone's eyes were suddenly on me, and I knew that I had been caught stuck in my own mind. Little smiles decorated their faces and even though I labeled them as my friends, I knew the smiles weren't friendly.

"I'm sorry, Susie, what was that?" I asked softly, a weak attempt to save face.

"You got the worst match," she said, setting her fork down and wiping her face with a napkin.

"That's not nice. We don't even know her," I stated both to her and myself, remembering that I had thoughts similar to hers.

"But what we do know is totally opposite of you, Maura," she pointed out.

Next to the names on Professor Dale's clipboard was a short description of the girls. It was composed mainly of generic things, age, two likes, two dislikes, whether or not they participated in afterschool activities and, if they did, what they were. I remember looking at the list with disdain, but not for who I picked, just for their information. I had gotten number 14, who apparently was a Miss Jane Rizzoli, 17, just like I was, who liked sports and being outdoors (neither of which I liked), disliked math and science (my two favorite subjects) and did many extracurricular activities. All of them were sports, however. So yes, I do believe we were the worst matched pairing in the whole system.

"That may be true, but you never know, Susie. We could become best friends and you could be replaced," I retorted quickly and with a smile, flicking a finger towards her, getting closer and closer to her.

"Please, Maura, you can never get rid of me," she replied as she stabbed at my finger with her fork.

"Like a leech?" one of the girls across from us asked and I immediately corrected her.

"Actually, leeches remove themselves after they're done feeding. A better metaphor would be chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. It can never be cured and if untreated it gets worse and worse as time progresses." My spine was straight with pride, but as time went on and I became more attuned to the awkward aura the table had taken, my back slouched slightly and my head bowed.

"Did… did you just call me COPD?" Susie asked with a bright, friendly smile upon her face. It wasn't condescending like the other girls', which was why I considered her my best friend at the time.

"I suppose," I muttered, still embarrassed and playing with my fingers.

"That's… pretty cool, Maura," she urged, nudging my knee with her own before curing the table of its awkwardness.

-0-

I don't exactly know what I was expecting when I sent the first letter, though it was probably immediate rejection. Because of our outstanding differences, I most likely believed that we wouldn't ever get along. Though now I suppose that our differences led us to be quite an interesting pair.

The first few letters were, of course, awkward to say the least. They were too short and a little more proper than necessary. They seemed robotic and forced, though Jane pointed out that they only felt that way because they were forced, therefore making our feelings towards the letters robotic. Thankfully, during the awkward stalemate in which we were doing everything we could to make conversation, Jane admitted that she enjoyed reading mystery novels. I think that's when we really started to get along. We would go on for pages about our favorite mystery novels and from then on we could always find something to talk about whether it was about school or our homes or just what we were thinking about at the time.

That's when I began finding myself thinking about Jane all of the time. I would be in AP Trigonometry class and start thinking about what Jane would say about this equation or mixing chemicals in AP Chemistry and wondering what Jane would say about how this solution smelled weird or this solution had a strange color. My mind was infected with Jane Rizzoli. What did she look like? What did she sound like? How tall is she? What color were her eyes? What type of clothes did she usually wear? What color was her hair? Was she blonde or was she a brunette? Did she ever dye her hair? Was she right or left-handed? My mind would leave no stone unturned and no question unasked when it came to Jane Rizzoli. To try and ease my thirst for all things Jane, I thought about the things I knew about her. I would think about her dog, Jo Friday, and her brothers, Frankie and Tommy. I would recall her baseball—she preferred the boys' competitiveness—team's name and colors and the score of their most recent win. I did everything I could think of, but nothing completely cured me of Jane. I could not get her out of my head and my grades were starting to reflect that.

I had gotten my first A- ever on a Trigonometry test two months after I began writing to Jane. When I first brought the test home, I was scared witless of what my mother would say. I was terrified of disappointing her and had actually contemplated taking a red pen and making the A- an A+. I was digging through my desk drawer when I finally caught up with myself. I immediately felt extremely guilty afterwards, to the point I was almost in tears. I had never done anything even remotely close to cheating up until then, so what had made me so ready to do so then? Perhaps, I remember thinking, Jane had something to do with it. Perhaps Jane's characteristic impulsive attitude had rubbed off against me simply through her letters. Perhaps I was developing rebellious attitudes through Jane.

I didn't care, however. In fact, after staring at the red pen in my desk drawer in absolute horror for a good ten minutes, I promptly grabbed it and a few pieces of paper and wrote a letter to Jane.

"Jane,

I realize that I just recently wrote you and you probably haven't even received it yet, but I just needed to talk to you. You see, I've been abnormally distracted lately, especially during my classes, and I would like you to know that the distraction is you. It's not a necessarily bad distraction, but I find it quite hard to get past the thought of you. When I'm supposed to be taking notes in AP History, I'm thinking about what you look like. When I'm supposed to be measuring liquids correctly in AP Chemistry, I'm wondering whether you're right or left-handed. When I'm supposed to be solving equations in AP Trigonometry, I'm planning my next letter to you. I try to placate my thoughts with things I already know, but I just can't let it go and I don't know why.

I want to know more about you. I want to know about your thoughts, not just about school or people in general, but about life and philosophy and whatever else may cross your mind. I want to know what you're afraid of and what makes you happy. I want to know why you seem so rebellious to me. I want to know why the mere thought of your upcoming letters makes me anxious and eager and makes my heart beat in my ears so loudly it drowns out any other noises. I want to know why you're impulsive and athletic and why you hate school so much. I want to know what makes you work, Jane. I understand that it's probably strange to read that, and you're probably thinking that I'm weird for writing that, but it's true.

I want to be closer to you, Jane. I want to be so much closer than I am now. However, because I don't want to scare you off with my insatiable curiosity, I absolutely will not send this.

Sincerely,

What the hell am I thinking?"

I stuffed the paper into an unused folder before promptly sliding it into a dark corner of my desk's small filing cabinet. I mechanically prepared for bed before cuddling in the comfort of my duvet. As tired as I was, though, I did not sleep that night.

I honestly only remember thinking about Jane throughout the whole night.

-0-

Jane's next letter wasn't a letter at all, really. Only two things resided in the envelope: a small piece of paper and a picture. It was strange at first, but then I looked closer at the items. The picture was small, wallet-sized, and showed a thin, lithe girl in a white and black baseball uniform. She had long, wavy black hair and sharp (and tan) features. She was up to bat in a game or practice—it honestly didn't matter to me—and looked positively flawless in her batting stance. I then investigated the paper. In her quick, seamless script, she wrote:

"Maura,

First things first, the girl in the picture is me. It's the most recent one I have. It's from a practice my Ma went to about a month ago. You know the one where I accidentally hit the ball into the shortstop's shoulder and broke his collarbone? That one.

Second, on the back of the paper is my email address, phone number and Facebook. I'm tired of writing letters back and forth in the 21st century. It's a step back in technology and honestly, it's dumb.

Third, that COPD thing is strangely hilarious.

Jane."

I blinked repeatedly before swiftly taking out my phone and adding her number into my contacts. I typed a quick text ( _Hello, Jane, it's Maura._ ) before studying the picture again. She was… everything I had expected plus an angel.

"Whoa," I heard from my side. "And who exactly is that?" My head shot to the side to find Susie leaning over her the aisle and invading my personal space. I wondered how long she had been there before hurriedly processing her question.

"Oh, um, that-that's Jane," I muttered, not wanting any more attention to my picture of my Pen Pal.

"That's Jane?" She seemed honestly surprised at the fact and that was unfortunately drawing attention from others around us. "Just… wow."

"I realize."

"Like… I figured she'd be super butch, you know?" Susie snatched the photo out of my hand and took a closer look. I reached for it instantly, but she slapped my hand away perfectly without looking. I scoffed and slyly withdrew my phone from my bag. Unlocking the screen, I noticed the message notification in the top left hand corner of the screen and my heart stuttered slightly. I inconspicuously looked to see Professor Dale fiddling with paperwork before unlocking it and going into my messages.

Jane's message shined spectacularly on my screen and I internally squealed with excitement.

_Hello, Maura. It's Jane._

I certainly hope it's Jane. I'd positively hate talking to a complete stranger, I replied rapidly, typing faster than I think I ever had before. I softly laid the phone face down on my desk before picking it up and unlocking the screen. The notification bar was empty and even though I knew she wouldn't be able to respond that quickly, I still felt disappointment soil my heart.

"…Maura? Are you in the classroom or what?" Susie asked from her desk, tapping me softly on the temple with the pad of her index finger.

"Oh, yes, sorry," I responded.

"Wait, wait, wait," Susie's eyes flashed towards my desk and spotted my cell phone. Her face contorted comically as she processed the situation. "Maura Dorthea Isles, are you texting in class?" she yelled in a whisper.

"No, of course not," I cried, quiet as she was. "I am more responsible than texting during class, Susie." I looked away immediately and clenched my phone tightly in my fist.

As Susie gave me a look that clearly stated she was unconvinced, bumps began to erupt all over my chest and neck. The bumps got increasingly itchy and though I was trying to appear unbothered, the hives eventually won over. "Shit," I muttered softly as I began to rub at the hived. A polygraph was unneeded when it came to me; I could hardly tell the whitest lie and still explode into hives. Susie unfortunately knew this and used it to her complete advantage.

"Ha! So you are texting in class!" she exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. I glared at her as I itched my hives gently, careful not to penetrate the skin. "Who the hell are you talking to, Isles?" She lunged for my phone, but quickly stuffed it in my pocket furthest from her.

"Nobody you should concern yourself with, Chang," I replied, my face hard, but my teasing soft.

"Okay, okay," she muttered, raising her hands in defeat as she relaxed back into her seat. "But you'll tell me one of these days."

-0-

The days passed quickly as Jane and I spoke more and more. I learned more about her—more of her feelings towards subjects and people—and she learned more about me—more of my baby tortoise I was given when I was seven and more of my loneliness when my mother was away on business. We still wrote each other, if only to make our teachers believe we were still just Pen Pals, but more often than not, we texted or sent emails to one another. Then, not too long after we began texting almost every minute of every day, I realized that my curiosity was growing even more. Frankly, it was getting out of hand. I remember that my nights were often spent texting Jane rather than sleeping, and that emailing her suddenly seemed more important than schoolwork. Weeks would go by and all I would remember from them was a conversation Jane and I had. It was taking a toll on my grades, but I didn't care. After all, I still had a few months to bring them up. Not to mention the fact that my mother was barely home for a day or two before she had to leave, my grades the last thing on her mind. But as Jane and I spoke more and more, grades began being the last thing on my mind. I began neglecting my schoolwork, my friends… the only thing I didn't forget about was my little Bass, and that was only because Jane reminded me every once in a while. I told her all of this eventually, and she admitted to the same thing, though her grades weren't as impeccable as mine, they were also dropping drastically.

_What should we do_ , I asked her as I sat at my desk, resting my feet on Bass' shell as he'd often let me get away with.

_I dunno_ , she answered a few moments later. I slowly stroked Bass' shell with my toes as I began to think of a solution.

_Perhaps we don't speak enough_ , I sent, not entirely thinking.

_LOL, perhaps we talk too much_ , she replied. I could almost picture her saying that, with her pink lips poised in a sweet smile and her dark eyebrows furrowed together slightly in a teasing manner. My head fell back against my chair's headrest as I imagined her in my room, speaking to me instead of texting. Sighing in exasperation at my foolish thoughts, I returned my attention back to my phone. Jane hadn't sent anything back, but I had nothing else to say.

We didn't encounter these stalemates too often, but when we did, hours could pass by without a single text from either of us. Eventually, one of us would find something or another to talk about and we'd begin another conversation that would last us days at a time. It was normal for us and I liked it. It was like something just… clicked between us and made it impossible for me to stay away for too long. I was an addict; condemned to keep returning to the object of my affection forever. I was being forced by an unseen force to keep talking to Jane, to keep learning more about her, to keep having everything to do with Jane.

_So,_ Jane sent after a minute or two, _you're, like, a genius, right?_

_Yeah, I guess I am. Why do you ask?_ I sent back quickly, my heart speeding up slightly at the thought of being needed, especially by Jane.

_Well, I have a question about something._

_I figured_ , I teased, hoping she'd know.

A few moments passed before I received her next text. _What in the living hell in mitosis?_

I chuckled before spending the rest of the night engrossed in everything Jane.


End file.
